Saturday, Aug. 25, will mark 100 years since the birth of Leonard Bernstein, who was one of a kind. Only there wasn't just one of him. There were two. No, wait. Four. At least.

Just ask his daughter.

"You can't recreate Leonard Bernstein, who was kind of a unique alignment of the planets. He could do it all," says Jamie Bernstein. In a recent phone conversation, she ticks off four basic models of the man she knew as "Daddy" and "L.B.":

1.Leonard Bernstein the conductor, the dashing and electric figure on the podium of the New York Philharmonic and orchestras around the world.

2.Leonard Bernstein the composer, the intense and fertile mastermind of symphonies, ballets, operas, choral works and musicals, including "West Side Story."

4.Leonard Bernstein the humanitarian and social activist, subject of an 800-page FBI file.

"J. Edgar Hoover had a thing for Leonard Bernstein," said his daughter, remarking on Bernstein No. Four. "I think he had a crush on him."

Jamie Bernstein is the author "Famous Father Girl: A Memoir of Growing Up Bernstein" (2018, Harper) and an itinerant champion for the music and legacy of all those many Leonards. On Friday at Tanglewood — the conductor's old and frequent stomping grounds — she'll serve as host and presenter of a Young People's Concert with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, a one-hour program modeled on her father's.

The event is one of roughly 3,300 around the world commemorating Bernstein, a figure Stravinsky admiringly called "a department store of music" and one of the most enduring, complex, influential and beloved musical figures of the 20th century. It's been 28 years since Bernstein's death at 72 after battling lung cancer, but the man is now omnipresent on American stages. "Between one thing and another," Jamie Bernstein said, "there's a whole lot of Bernstein going on — and the reason that it's such a celebration is that he himself was so multifaceted."

In fact, Bernstein himself felt split in two — a feeling he confessed in a 1949 interview with my own father, Louis Biancolli, who spent decades as music critic for the New York World-Telegram. The two L.B.s knew one another. Growing up, I remember getting holiday cards from the brood: Jamie, her brother Alexander, her sister Nina, her mother Felicia Montealegre and, of course, her dad.

As Bernstein characterized it in that 69-year-old article, the composer by nature is "an introspective person, with a strong inner life." The conductor, on the other hand, is an extrovert. As a performer and a creator both, "You discover that you are supporting two lives, psychologically speaking. ... I'm always just barely keeping up with myself."

I read this chunk aloud to Jamie Bernstein, who half-laughed, half-gasped in response. "That's amazing that he actually said that in the interview, because that's what I go around saying all the time. ... I think he was two people in one body — an introvert and an extrovert," she said, then added: "That's the damnedest thing."

When I told her I'd stumbled across the quotation in Allen Shawn's 2014 Bernstein biography, she decided that's probably where she first picked up on the notion. Either way, the snippet stands as proof that the great man was well aware of his own inner complications. "I guess he was — all the way back in '49."

In "Famous Father Girl," daughter portrays father as a whirlwind of energy and appetite and ideas, both a force of nature and a fiercely erudite master of his field. The memoir describes a childhood exploding with laughter, music, theater and powerful personalities — his most of all. It also openly addresses all that L.B. was: his charisma, his passions, his cravings for caffeine and cigarettes and other substances. It's equally open about his life as a gay man married to a woman he deeply loved.

Jamie Bernstein never planned to hide any of that. "I think I knew I was gonna do that from the beginning," she said. "My general rule of thumb is: Anything you try to hide is gonna come around and bite you in the butt. At some point, it's always better to put things out there in a context of love and warmth and a sense of family, and all of the things that were in that larger context. And in that way, it's a better way to go about things than to be — what's the word I'm looking for? — furtive."

She doesn't fret too much over his legacy, she said. True, most young people today don't know Bernstein's music beyond "West Side Story." But everywhere she goes, she hears from musicians and audience members who attest to his influence on their lives — and in this centennial year, works from the monumental "Mass" to the thorny and stirring "Kaddish" symphony are being performed around the globe.

In many ways, she said, her father was ahead of his time. Back when atonal serialism was all the rage in classical circles, he remained stubbornly devoted to tonality. Though at ease incorporating serialist elements himself — "just one color in his palette," Jamie said — he also wrote music of unapologetic lyricism and crunching muscularity, even embracing rock 'n roll decades before such multi-genre influences became the norm.

"We had to live through watching our father consciously and deliberately disqualify himself during his lifetime from being considered a serious composer. because that's what he believed in. Thank God he didn't fold and start writing 12-tone music, like when the Rolling Stones went disco. It's like, really, 'Et tu, Rolling Stones?" Nowadays, she said, "he's the composer that contemporary composers look to as their role model — because the way he mixed together the genres is what today's composers feel totally comfortable doing. And now Bernstein's music sounds totally contemporary."

Yes, she said, she wishes he could witness firsthand the shift in attitudes — toward tonality, toward cross-genre explorations, toward his own music. "He's not around for his 100th birthday, but I think he would be so gratified to see how much of his music is being performed all over the world."

Writing the book was, she said, a way to make peace with all that L.B. was — and a way to make peace with music itself. When she was younger, "Music was around me all the time, but I had such a problem making music with my own body — and it made me so neurotic, and it generated all these odious comparisons."

For years she had shot for a career as a singer-songwriter. But a planned album for Island Records never materialized — and she found herself, decades later, traversing the world of music as an educator, writer, concert narrator, filmmaker and globe-trotting torch-bearer for her father's legacy. It was a way to travel that realm, to contribute to it, without hauling around the usual baggage.

The epiphany hit her while writing "Famous Father Girl" — her first book but, she hopes, not her last. "I loved the experience. It reminded me of being pregnant: It's this thing that goes on and on, and it's always cooking — month after month after month. And I loved that feeling."

Now that she's finished, does she feel closer to her father? "Actually, writing the book did that for me in a big way, because he is such a public figure — and is so embraced by so much of the world — that it's tricky for my brother and sister and me to find ways to keep him for ourselves, to keep some part of him for ourselves."

But in the end, nothing evokes her father's presence more than his own compositions. "His music is so him," she said, "that whenever I hear his music, it's like a hug."